


Form and Matter

by WorldCup



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: AFC Ajax, Based on a confession from footballconfesaions blog shhhh, Champions League, Champions league 2018/19, I blame es for this, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Post rma vs ajax leg 1 in umcl 18/19, Post-Game(s), Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21999586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorldCup/pseuds/WorldCup
Summary: “it's not in anyone's–” Nico halts, and takes a better look at the older defender, and something might've clicked, but he can't really tell.  They're not paid to think, they're not bought to think. They're paid to advance, to score or defend, they're paid to do their job, and their job is not much of thinking, or at least not this sort of thinking.
Relationships: Nico tagliafico/Sergio ramos
Kudos: 7





	Form and Matter

**Author's Note:**

> as the tags say, it is inspired and based on a confession on footballconfesaions. It's been long since I've written this, tbh.  
> disclaimer: it's nothing but fiction about real people
> 
> Unbetad and half-heartedly edited. all mistakes are mine.

That was it, it seemed. Nico sighs, in defeat, in despair. It wasn't right, they were better. They. Were. Better.

But that didn't change a thing; 

They still lost and, even if his goal wasn't taken away by the VAR, they would still have lost on aggregate. 

But it was taken away–cancelled on a second look. A second, more thorough look–by the VAR, and on aggregate, they were two goals down, and not only one. 

And Ajax weren't a remontada–or whatever it was called in Dutch, Nico wouldn't know since no one really ever had to use that–team, had they been one, they would have more trophies in their cabinet.

Ajax was a simpler club, richer in history rather than funds–and that's not to say Real Madrid, or other clubs, for that matter, didn't have rich history–but history isn't worth much when you can't afford to buy and pay for all these players that the bigger teams had. 

Nico finishes showering early, and goes back to the tunnel. He climbes the stairs two-at-a-time and reaches the exit. It's already almost too dark outside, but he can still see the silhouettes of the stadium staff, tending to the grass; he walks outside, grass tickling lightly his exposed feet, completely unshielded with only slippers on, and makes his way to one of the first elevated rows of seats in the stands, watching the stadium from a point of view that isn't too low but still not high enough to see it in its full glory, but enough to see all details in the beauty of the Beautiful Game. 

_Beautiful game_ he almost laughs at the thought. _As if_.

The " _Beautiful Game_ " had become nothing but a game of power, of money, of hate, and of politics. It looked beautiful, but all it had brought was the ugliness of humans, of the people who claimed to love it, but could not tolerate people they deemed unacceptable to represent them or their club or even their country;

A “ _beautiful game_ ” of fouls and purposeful trippings, of dirty plays and time-wasting.

_A Beautiful Game, indeed._

“thinking too hard?” a deep voice rasps in Spanish, and the Spanish sounds wrong, and the voice is too close, and nothing is right that evening, so he turns, and it's worse when he recognizes who towers above where he sits.

“used to see it whenever you as much as glance in the mirror?” Nico bites back at the man in his Spanish, the right one, the correct one, by also a much more wrong one (they never really forgiven the Spaniards for erasing their ancestors' languages and cultures. And they never will). Sergio Ramos, what a–what was the opposite of pleasure? “ _Displeasure_ ” does not even _begin_ to describe what he feels towards that man.

It's weird, thinking about it; because he does admire a guy like Ramos, objectively—although admiration is all but objective, and maybe so is everything else in life—Objectively because a guy his age still having so much influence on the pitch in all lines–defense, midfield, offense–both his team's and the opponent, it is admirable. His leadership of his team is not one to look over, either; the team is in Chaos, when he is not present. 

Something about him was to look up to, but mostly he just seemed so aggressive, fast, precise, like a predator spotting and closing on a prey, like a sniper aiming a gun on a costly target.

Assassin about to strike down any counter.

And now he was standing behind Nico's seat, on the terrace above, and then, in a swift movement, which seemed both too elegant and too ungraceful for someone like him, he held the raised back of the chair next to Nico and used it as a leverage to jump to Nico's row, and sat on that chair.

He smells like aftershave, although he still hasn't shaved, and, Nico guesses, he himself smells like that, too, since all products for men have the same scent ofsomething unnatural and cold and sharp.

Ramos laughs and then he brings his hand up, as if to mess Nico's hair, but seems to decide against doing so, apparatus, and freezes with his hand in mid-air; and Nico can see how he slowly closes his fingers into a fist while drawing back his hand. The Argentinian watches the Spaniard quietly, carefully, always on guard.

“not really, no. See, I don't really think much, it's not in my contract, to think” he smiles good-naturly and then turns to look at the field, several shades of green forming dark-than-black, almost colorless mass, painted dark hues under dark blue-ish skies. 

“it's not in anyone's–” Nico halts, and takes a better look at the older defender, and something might've clicked, but he can't really tell. They're not paid to think, they're not bought to think. They're paid to advance, to score or defend, they're paid to do their job, and their job is not much of thinking, or at least not this sort of thinking.

Ramos then rises up from the seat and looks down at Nico again, but it's different this time. This time, he's aware of his presence; this time, he can tell he's in Ramos' cast shadow, and maybe it's symbolic, or just a phenomenon of nature, and should not be put so much thought into, maybe it just is not that deep.

“you're all a good team, it'd be a shame to see you all disassemble. I can only wish you as much luck and success as possible. You're lucky to have Ajax, but they're not less lucky to have you” Ramos says and starts walking away, back to the dressing rooms, Nico assuems.

“I'm going to play your team again next, and soon. Why would you wish me luck?” Nico can't help but ask him, almost spluttering. 

Ramos turns to him, the friendly smile still present. “because you intrigue me, Nico” he winks, and maybe it's the faraway lights that twist his sight, or maybe it's Nico's own imagination, completely unrelated to the poor lighting and maybe it's neither and it's real, but, Nico could swear there is something almost hungry in Ramos' already dark eyes.

\----

**Author's Note:**

> again, fiction about real people. based on a confession and then a joke. It started as a joke.


End file.
